


Morning Smoke

by Faded_Smiles



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Internal Monologue, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, Phase One (Gorillaz), Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 22:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16585154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faded_Smiles/pseuds/Faded_Smiles
Summary: Down on his luck, 31-year-old Murdoc Niccals contemplates life over a morning cigarette.





	Morning Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I felt like getting into Murdoc's head. C: I usually only RP/cosplay Gorillaz with my partner, but I felt the inspiration to write a quick one shot after seeing a cigarette on the ground. There are light 2Doc implications, but it's mostly all about our favorite bastard bassist. Hope you enjoy!

A half spent cigarette on the pavement caught Murdoc’s eye. He did a double take, a habit bred by paranoia, before bending over and snatching it.

What a life. So he’d become a scavenger now, had he? And down to his last few pounds. Satan, help him. Pursuing failure band after failure band led to him squatting in buildings and without a car. Most his age had gone to university and settled down with families. But here he was, for better or worse, chasing a boyhood dream—a dream to have the biggest band in the world.

And he’d always keep dreaming. Even if he reached super stardom, he’d never be big enough.

Murdoc stared at the half-spent cigarette between his fingers. Who’d smoked it before him? Some bird who only tried to impress a bloke she wanted to shag? She must have not been a very dolled up date. There weren’t any traces of lipstick. Maybe it’d been some sorry businessman in a rush who made enough pounds to buy all the fags in the world. Or maybe it’d been some rubbish kid with a case of mouth herpes. That’d be bollocks. No cure for that one.

Whomever’s fag it was, they were long gone. It belonged to Murdoc Niccals now. Deciding he didn’t give a shit about cold sores or catching any other possible illnesses, he cupped his hand around the fag as a biting wind cut through his threadbare jumper. Flicking the lighter, he caught a spark on the third try and inhaled.

The familiar burning in his lungs warmed him. Murdoc exhaled in relief. He found it refreshing the smoke no longer stemmed from cold air and his own breath. He took another drag to warm, ducking into a nearby alleyway.

Across the way, he took notice of a shop. Uncle Norm’s Organ Emporium. A teenage boy, skinny as a rail, took up residence in the shop window, staring into space while business entered a lull. Even from this distance, Murdoc could tell not much went on behind that vacant stare. Thick as they came. Pretty, too.

He scowled while taking a puff of the dwindling cigarette, averting his gaze to the pavement. A nearby puddle reflected his own sorry mug. His shit father never had much in the looks department. And he’d never known his mum, but he always imagined a sad sort of woman, mad but harmless, with no confidence. He flicked the cigarette he’d smoked down to the filter into the puddle, stomping on it with his stolen Cubans to distort his own reflection rather than out of necessity.

If anyone ever asked, Murdoc Niccals was fit as they came.

Fake it ‘til you make it, they say. Who the bloody hell were _they_ , anyway? He trusted no one, but he adhered to this logic simply because he said it, not because _they_ did.

He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the brick wall. He refocused his attention to the shop. The blue-haired Saturday boy was helping a little old lady carry a keyboard to her Vauxhall Astra under the direction of an old man standing in the doorway, presumably Norm himself. The boy probably had no will of his own. Pathetic, really, and too stupid to realize his own incompetence was a problem. Murdoc would bet his last pound that he could ram-raid the whole store with the old lady’s very same car without that Saturday boy becoming wise.

Say, now there was a thought. Ram-raid the store. A twisted smirk curled into his lips. He could get a lot for those keyboards. He could sell them and also start a new band with whatever he decided to keep. Brilliant. Murdoc Niccals was a genius.

He just needed to gather a few blokes to help him steal the old lady’s car. Easy. With his charisma and surreptitious streak, he’d have a gang and a car straightaway.

With a spring in his step, Murdoc took his leave of the alley in the early morning fog. He paid attention to the old woman’s license and noticed how she headed south at a snail’s pace, well under the speed limit. He began walking in that direction, the old bat too blind to realize she was being tailed judging by how she hunched over the wheel. 

Murdoc glanced over his shoulder. He saw the blue-haired boy going back into the store out of the corner of his eye and chuckled. The young sod would have no idea what hit him.


End file.
